A film that takes over $400 million worldwide in its first weekend is also derided by critics (currently 28% positive on Rotten Tomatoes) is always going to be difficult to discuss. It is certainly flawed, more of that later, but it isn’t a disaster. And it certainly better than the last $250 million franchise film I reviewed, Spectre, although it does share some of its flaws including a bloated running time and lack of action in the first third. It is I think mostly a bit disappointing in that many of the elements of a great film are present, but they’re not marshalled in a way to really get the blood going. It looks great and, as many have reported, Ben Affleck is a good Batman and Gal Gadot steals what little time she has as Wonder Woman in what is little more than an extended cameo. It also shoehorns in far too many set-ups for the upcoming Justice League films with one dream sequence in particular, although well shot, completely stalling the film. It’s the sort of thing Marvel films have been much better at, using the post-credits stinger rather than delaying the central narrative. When the action does happen it’s pretty good although it was annoying that the only proper Batman sequence occurred in the last 3rd of the film; why not set up his abilities earlier?

The film takes up after the controversial ending of Man of Steel and uses that well, initially, to discuss Superman’s place in the world and the risks he may, or may not, pose. Bruce Wayne gets a ground-level view of the destruction of Metropolis and this provides ample motivation for his anxiety concerning the Kryptonian (and rendering all visions and time travel visits from the Flash irrelevant). But then it bogs down in politics, a redundant African subplot, and a morose Superman. As much as the film gets Batman right it gets Superman wrong. The end of Man of Steel suggested he had found his place in the world, both as Clark Kent and Superman, but this film erases that conclusion and makes him a miserable saviour. Plus there’s no fun in his rescues – sure Snyder wants to play up the mythic, god, aspect of Superman but it erases the essential humility the character requires (imbued on that farm in Kansas) that stops him from growing into the potential fascist dictator that Batman fears. Throughout the history of the Superman comics there’s been a too-and-fro between who is the real person – Clark or Superman. Originally it was the latter, but later (particularly during John Byrne’s reinvention), Clark emerged as the more dominant persona, a realisation that if Superman doesn’t embrace the human side he risks becoming an alienated god-figure, such as Dr Manhattan becomes in Watchmen. That after all is the essential drama of Superman; the question is never can Superman save us, it is will he? This is what, for me anyway, makes him such an interesting character. Every time he goes for a cup of coffee Clark is potentially letting someone die – there is always someone who needs saving. His choice to have a relationship with Lois means taking on a commitment that excludes other responsibilities – it’s horrific really. And although Batman V Superman hints at this burden it never resolves it, as it never allows Superman to invoke his human side. The finale suggests that he comes to realise some of this but it’s a bit late by then. And it’s not like any of this is a unique or new insight, Umberto Eco had it covered years ago.

Back to the film. Jesse Eisenberg is a fun, young, and twitchy Lex Luthor but his motivation is unclear and his manipulation of the titular heroes a bit obvious and his creation of Doomsday is a little too reminiscent of the creation of Nuclear Man in Superman IV: The Quest for Peace in that both involve mixing Kryptonian DNA with his own to make a Superman destroying monster. Amy Adams does her best in the underwritten role of Lois Lane and Holly Hunter makes the most of her brief cameo.

My biggest criticism is that the film essentially lacks heart. Early on in the film a photographer, on assignment with Lois in Africa, is shot. The interweb tells me that this was Jimmy Olsen. His throw away death is symptomatic of the lack of affinity that the film-makers have with Superman’s world. They can do dark, but they really struggle to come into the light.

PS the film also references John Boorman’s excellent Excalibur, please check it out.

Lord this was boring, self-important rubbish. How can a studio spend $250 million working with great actors and superb technicians in some of the most interesting locations in the world and produce 2 hours 40 minutes of meh? I don’t suggest that making a good film is easy – if it was more people would be doing it, but making a dull action film takes some effort.

It all starts promisingly with a neat opening sequence in Mexico, using the Day of the Dead as backdrop to the action. Bond is targeting a mystery man, the assassination goes wrong and a fight in a helicopter ensues. Nothing too original, but the location is good and the opening tracking shot is fun. From there it goes downhill at pace as Craig’s torso gets felt up by octopus tentacles in a credit sequence that seems to be channeling the more outré corners of a loner’s Anime collection. Then, after London preliminaries, a whole vacuous sequence in Rome that does nothing to advance the plot, wastes Monica Bellucci (who appears to dress up in underwear after sex) and features one of the most dull car chases I’ve ever witnessed (and I’ve seen a few). Everything feels done by rote, and Craig looks miserable. Worse the film suffers from an air of self-importance and glumness as if everyone really thinks they’re making a significant work of art. Much as I love action films, rarely do they reach that level, despite their sociological importance as cultural barometers (read some of the late Umberto Eco’s work to get this). The cinematography is very pretty but ill-fitting and it’s edited at a snail’s pace. Mendes seems to have mistaken slow for serious. And good god he uses a lot of slow-dollies into rooms. It’s his Abrams/lens-flare compulsion.

Léa Seydoux is dumped with nothing to do and her romance to Craig seems entirely vacuous – dashing from anger to lust during the course of a fight on a train. Craig himself has failed to build on the promise of the excellent Casino Royale, instead taking the glummer parts of the over-rated Skyfall to heart, and injects no irony or warmth into his portrayal which leaves the audience with a problem. Bond without leavening humour (an invention of the films, not Fleming’s novels) is a misogynist assassin. Craig looks like he knows this, and it looks like he doesn’t like it (not surprising given the good work he does campaigning against violence towards women). Plus the Bond he’s asked to play is now impervious to even drills into the brain, leaving very little drama to work with and no style. The villain (who’s obviously been Blofeld from the day it was named Spectre) wants to control surveillance over the world. Why? I’m not sure. Perhaps he’s the militant wing of the Bilderberg group? He introduces himself to Bond in a special room with a meteor in it. Why? God knows, and it’s another scene that could be removed from the film with little impact on the narrative. Indeed around an hour could be removed and replaced with a few lines of dialogue.

Caught up in the excitement of the London Olympics liking Skyfall seemed to become a patriotic duty for some, but I find the generally positive reaction to Spectre even more inexplicable – if it weren’t for the reason I spent money to rent it, and that Christoph Waltz appeared to give some life to the film, I would have happily taken my 11 year old daughter’s advice and stopped it. The film also proves Hollywood’s unfailing ability to learn the wrong lessons. In copying first the Bourne films and then the Dark Knight Trilogy the Bond producers have only managed to produce something overlong, over-serious and lacking in the surprise and excitement that made the other films so good. As James Gunn has warned here, copying films does no-one any favours.

It’s a shame, there’s perhaps few people as willing to love a Bond film as I am (I do appear in one of the video games for Christ’s sake), but I found nothing to love and little to like in this snail paced film that had me pining for the fun of yore. In fact, and I do mean this, A View to a Kill is a better film. Really. And it’s not very good (Moore is practically using a Zimmer and the heroine is capable of being snuck up upon by a Zepplin), but it’s never this boring. Craig has followed Brosnan’s pattern of starring in an excellent debut, to be followed by increasingly muddled sequels. I never thought I’d dislike a Bond film as much as Die Another Day but they did it. And that film had Madonna and an invisible car.

It has been with a depressing familiarity that Hollywood has got itself in a mess this Oscar season about the lack of racial diversity in its nominees. Not only is this the second year without any non-white nominees for the key awards, it smacks of the same attitudes present since Hattie McDaniel accepted her Oscar in a Whites Only hotel for a film that painted slavery as not that bad and a nice backdrop to the problems of wealthy white people. Meanwhile the argument about equal pay for women goes on, spearheaded by Jennifer Lawrence, and the startling lack of female directors is still to be noted (it’s worth listening to this excellent interview with Lexi Alexender on the topic) while male directors with a history of failures keep getting work.

All this came together in my mind while watching the execrable Pixels directed by journeyman Chris Columbus who has had some success (most notably with the first two, most boring, Harry Potters, Home Alone and Mrs Doubtfire) and some sizable flops (the $100 million Bicentennial Man being the most offensive). That Columbus gets a budget of $88 million for this dross when directors like Kathryn Bigelow and Mary Harron have barely made any films in the past 10 years shows how much the gender problem lingers throughout the Hollywood system. God knows how much Adam Sandler got for his lazy performance, but I’ve no doubt he probably made double the money that Michelle Monaghan received. Worse still this film puts a capable actress through the indignity of playing an horrific male-fantasy of rebound MILF; the sort of woman who goes for men who basically harass her when she’s in a fragile emotional state. Watch as Sandler, playing a TV repair guy, literally says “Wow” as she enters and then proceeds to explain that he’s shocked that any man would leave her because she’s so hot! Instead of, like a real person, phoning his boss and getting him sacked, she tolerates this eventually deciding that the schlub has potential. The rest of the film is lazy as hell, and continues to demean women throughout, seeing them exclusively as the reward for male effort – including one character having a threesome arranged for him by the President because he helped save the world. In a kids movie. It’s also an incredibly white film, with non-white characters limited to support (in fact the only two significant non-whites, both male, need to be rescued by our white heroes in the film’s tepid denouement). The only engaging character in the film is Q*bert, an animated sidekick – and even he is transformed into a sexy-hot-female-warrior so one hero can live his weird cyber-sex fantasies. Did I mention it’s, y’know, for kids?

Generally considered as a flop Pixels managed to drag in $244 million globally, meaning it probably covered it’s costs. But it stands as an excellent expression of all that’s wrong with Hollywood – a story conceived around a cool idea, but one that no-one thought through; misogyny from the get go (the cast has two characters called Cyber Chick #1, and Cyber Chick #2); lack of diversity; and a horrible view of its audience.

Yes the Oscars are an affront. Yes the pay-gap is wrong. But the problem will not be solved by a few awards, or a few pay rises. Until it hits the execs who put this tripe together, who treat their audience as a bunch of idiots with the emotional intelligence of zero, nothing changes. Please stop spending your money on this stuff – seek out the work of female directors, make an effort to watch films made by, and for, diverse people. Otherwise there’s another 100 years of this.

Warning: Spoilers!

Having scandalized a nation with the excellent Dressed to Kill (1980) De Palma planned to go one better with his next Body Double, this time re-mixing Vertigo and Rear Window and then adding some madness that’s all his own. It’s more polished than its predecessor, but lacks the visceral shocks, although much is made up by the gleeful deconstruction of male spectatorship in a film in which a crime is solved because the protagonist (Craig Wasson as a loser B-Movie actor) surfs porn channels at night. The twist is so ludicrous it trumps all other elements in this thriller that once again throws the audience a dirty look and suggest that watching films might just be a bit perverted.

Wasson is Jake Scully an actor fired from a terrible vampire film because he suffers from claustrophobia. He goes home and finds his wife in bed with another man (worse than that, he makes her “Glow”). A new friend (Gregg Henry) offers him a place to stay, in what must be the most 1980s location ever, the Ultramodern Chemosphere complete with rotating bed and a telescope that spies on the hot woman dancing opposite. Mix in a mysterious Native American TV engineer and a murder plot soon hatches in which, in the least subtly phallic way imaginable, a woman is killed by a very large drill. Haunted by this woman Jake cracks up, watches porn and spies Melanie Griffith (as porn-star Holly Body) who has some familiar dance moves. Jake, being a bit mad, decides the best way to follow up his observation is to star in a porn-film opposite Holly, a scene which includes Frankie Goes to Hollywood singing their subtle anthem Relax (and I mean the actual band turns up, not just the song).

On paper nothing should work about this film. The protagonist is unlikable, the plot hinges on ludicrous behavior and coincidences and the finale involves a dog misidentifying his owner, but the whole is done with such (heavily 1980s) style and verve that it works, dashing though its running time at breakneck speed. It also makes some neat observations about the male audience, and the differences between being a Peeping Tom and watching porn. Just as in Dressed to Kill women are not represented well, there are only two really, but the men are far worse: a bunch of selfish, obsessive voyeurs. And De Palma’s willingness to throw in every thriller trick makes it hypnotic watching.

Now this is good, silly, OTT fun. A joyful romp that riffs on the many Frankenstein films from the last 80 years, this new film should not be taken as a serious adaptation of Mary Shelley’s work (which is rather dull anyway), but rather as an attempt to revise the story into a more modern aesthetic while retaining a love for what’s gone before (including a delightful nod to Mel Brook’s 1974 spoof). In fact any references to Shelley’s work are minimal, almost entirely limited to the phrase “Modern Prometheus.” Originally titled Igor, a character invented by Universal, this film is as much a bromance between Radcliffe’s hunchback clown/part-time medic and James McAvoy’s electric, manic, saliva-spitting scientist. Indeed the film’s neatest twist on a well worn narrative is to shift the focus away from the creature and towards the creators and how their activities might go down in Victorian London (not the Geneva of the novel), where they gain the attention of Scotland Yard’s Inspector Turpin (Andrew Scott). Throw in a little hunchback on acrobat romance and some terrific sets and compositions and you’re left with a film that is entirely un-serious but has great narrative drive and some terrific set pieces, the highlight being when an early creation, called Gordon, charges through a medical college. The final act even manages to stage a sequence that feels familiar to fans of monster movies, but sufficiently different to entertain.

There are plot-holes and many questions left unanswered, but live with the contrivances and you can soak up the atmosphere and McAvoy’s energy – no scene is left unchewed as he rampages through the film. Radcliffe continues to create a sound distance between himself and The Boy Who Lived and good-old Charles Dance turns up to lend support. This however may be the kiss of death on the film at the box-office. His appearance can be problematic in Hollywood films – but this deserves a better reception than Last Action Hero, Alien 3, China Moon, Space Truckers, Your Highness…

Warning: Spoilers!

The Usual Suspects is an excellent film, correctly celebrated for its non-linear structure and unreliable narrator. But it’s also a fascinating look at male anxiety in the way the characters are consistently calling into question each others’ sexuality and masculinity. As the Suspects themselves jockey to out-man each other Verbal Kint/Keyser Soze looks on showing the virtue of thought and ambiguity amid the cock-fights. It’s an anxiety that seems increasingly pervasive in male-culture, finding angry expression in communities such as Red Pill or in humorous social comment in #masculinitysofragile?. It’s with great prescience that Chris McQuarrie’s script for The Usual Suspects explores this.

Throughout the film the threat of loss of masculinity is ever present, with the possibility of passivity (especially in the sense of sexual penetration) seen as the greatest fear. Not so much death for McManus, Hockney, Fenster and Keaton but buggery as the ultimate humiliation. Their strength is seen in terms of this, their unwillingness to “bend over for anybody” in Kint’s terms. They tease and threaten each other with penetration (Fenster to Hockney “Hey lover boy, you wanna piece?”, McManus to Hockney “You wanna dance with a man for a change?”) When Keaton is arrested he’s told he’s not a business man, “From now on, you’re in the gettin’-fucked-by-us business.” Bending over, being fucked is the greatest threat. Is it any wonder these men grip their guns so tightly throughout the film? This constant reassurance of their masculinity, the acceptable cinematic phallus helps define, and protect them

Except that it doesn’t. They are all undone by the most passive one of them all. One who talks rather than acts, who hurts and plans. Is it any coincidence that Verbal states that “I’ll probably shit blood tonight” having been punched by Keaton, revealing his own penetrability (unsurprisingly anal). Agent Kujan tries to dominate him mentally and physically, but its his own status as a “cripple” and a “gimp” (which means both disabled and a sexual submissive) that give him an advantage. It’s beyond these men, and their physical anxiety, to understand that they can be controlled by talk, not physicality, that passivity can be controlling.

Fundamentally this is the fear of the feminine (passive, talking, penetrated) that has taken root in our culture since the Victorian era – it’s created a binary opposition where attitudes and qualities accrue on either side and slippage isn’t possible. It’s beyond anyone in the film to see that Verbal Kint could move across boundaries, have qualities from either groups. It’s a division especially riven into US culture from the Western in which masculinity is held superior for its silence, action and ruggedness, with women connected to the home and hearth but also the emasculating forces of civilization.

Oddly it reminds of the classical split between Rome and Greece, and the USA is often compared to Rome. The Greeks had Odysseus praised for his wiles and planning, his cunning and speech. For the Romans he became Ulysses a treacherous man, whose deceit was an un-Roman quality. It may not be un-linked that the Greeks were more interested in sex between men. We don’t know whether Alexander the Great was a top, but it’s clear in the Illiad that Achilles was a bottom.

Classical diversions aside The Usual Suspects suggests the current growing anxiety in some men about their gender – that any quality that aligns them with women/homosexuality is to be driven away. Ironically, this leads to their downfall. Turns out their masculinity is fragile, rather like a Kobayashi mug.

Academic conferences can be a bit of a mixed bag. There’s the focus (does it have one), the speakers and, perhaps most importantly, the coffee. Well DMU, and in particular IQ Hunter, excelled themselves with the Jaws Symposium. By focusing on one film it ensured that the papers were relevant and that each panel made sense in itself, as well as for the wider day. It’s difficult, and unfair, to pick out specific speakers but I will mention that both key notes (Murray Pomerance and Nigel Morris) were very good and that a whole host of new ideas were thrown about – including some excellent myth busting about the film. Yes it’s important – but not always for the reasons we’re told in the text books. The highlight of the day was undoubtedly the Skype chat with Carl Gottlieb who gave some great background on the film and laid to rest a few more lingering myths, chiefly the idea that John Milius wrote the Indianapolis speech (he didn’t – it was a combination of Gottlieb, Howard Sackler and Quint himself, Robert Shaw). He also, graciously, answered my query about whether being on the opposite sea-board to Hollywood allowed the film-makers an extra freedom (and the ability to get away with all the problems the production is famous for) – the simple answer was yes.

We heard about Jaws’ place in cinema history, the epiphenomena surrounding the film, links to childhood and sexuality, ideas on the masochistic process of cinema and much more. Also lunch was good. And it’s always great to hear Peter Kramer’s laugh. See you in another 40.

Don’t worry – I have not taken leave of my senses. I am not a fan of Michael Bay’s movies. I think creatively he peaked with The Rock and theoriginal Bad Boys (to be fair he does put in a good performance as a frat house super villain in Mystery Men). The Transformers films represent a sort of nadir of Hollywood film-making, they’re long, incoherent, and bedeviled by meaningless camera moves and edits. Women, even by Hollywood standards, are treated badly (mostly shot from arse height as far as I can tell).

Why then defend him? As Tranformers 4 races its way to a billion dollars at the box office it’s time to give Bay his due. He gives people (or at least a large proportion of the cinema going public) what they want. It may be a sad indictment of out times but the numbers speak for themselves. In fact the worse he gets, the more we encourage him (the Transformers films are getting longer and worse every time – and he’s threatening at least 2 more), by buying more tickets.

But stop for a moment and take the long view. Film history is full of bad movies that have done very well, and great movies that did badly. Everyone now loves The Shawshank Redemption, but no-one went to see it in cinemas, it found life on VHS. Double Indemnity, which may be the best Film Noir ever made, didn’t make it into 1944’s top 10. Crap like Love Story (love means never having to watch this piece of tripe) made a fortune. Over time the cream rises, the crap sinks. So leave Michael Bay alone – cinema has always been full of successful hacks that no-on can name in 30 years. Great movies are being made right now – let’s celebrate them and leave Bay to himself.

Turns out blockbusters can still be good. Normally I eschew discussing the latest releases on this site, after all so many people have it covered. But Dawn was such a refreshingly well made film that it’s worth flagging it here and encouraging all and sundry to see it. Taking place several years after Rise of the Planet of the Apes, Dawn takes place just outside, a beautifully ruined, San Francisco, where ape society has developed into a beautiful collective ruled by Ceaser (once again performed/acted by Andy Serkis, who fully justifies his top billing) the main ape from Rise. Having constructed their own wooden village they are slowly developing into a socialist collective that lives in harmony with nature. Guess who’s going to screw it up?

Despite the intelligently monikered Simian Flu having wiped out most of humanity a few who are immune have banded together in SF living, with a believable inevitability, in the shopping centre base of a tower block. Whereas Ape-Kind is building something new, humankind are desperate to return to the world they lost; it’s the quest for restarting a hydro-electric plant that causes all the trouble.

The human characters are stock types, but well played. However the film belongs to the apes, with Tony Kebbell (as Koba) running Serkis close. The sfx are amazing, particularly on Orangutan Maurice (Karin Konoval) who convinces from his eyes to the tip of every millimeter of fur.

It’s not the smartest film ever made, but it’s not dumb. The only let down being the OTT finale that has now become compulsory in any big budget studio picture. An effective, well made movie. More of these please, Hollywood.

Greengrass specialises in this – creating a drama so raw, so real, that it feels like you’re there. United 93 put you in the plane, willing the passengers to break the cockpit door, despite the inevitability of failure. This time, and with a little star-power from Tom Hanks, the action takes place on two boats – a huge container ship, that gets besieged by Somali Pirates, and the lifeboat the Pirates use in an effort to get back home. It makes for a claustrophobic and sweaty experience.

It opens cutely, cross-cutting between Hanks as his eponymous Captain gets ready for work and the prep of the Somali pirates – choosing the strongest to get into the skiffs, tiny boats with which they’ll use to assault the shipping lanes off Africa. There’s something heroic about the Pirates (all played by amateurs); their determination, and desperation, at a world where their traditional livelihood of fishing has been destroyed by the same people who insist the waters are international. Greengrass is no apologist though, drawing a distinct line between the Pirates choices and actions. By the time the US Navy arrives, the film has clearly shifted to Hanks who puts in an excellent shift.

It’s not a surprise that Greengrass made this. What is surprising that it’s made over $150 million at the box-office. A good alternative to the usual Hollywood bluster, and further evidence that audiences want more than just sequels and re-makes.